A Shot in the Dark
by marirable
Summary: The stock market in Germany hasn't crashed yet but date night plans get disrupted by assignments in the name of the family. Only so many chances are left to prevent the inevitable. An extended piece of memory mentioned in chapter 9 of "Bleeding Heart". Baldwin Montclair/Eva Jäeger.


Apart from the stinging pain in his shoulder and a slight tearing where the bullet had entered, Baldwin's evening was going well enough.

He walked slowly, his main objective being to contain the damage and avoid attracting unwanted attention from onlookers, even though this was not his preferred walking speed. It was a late hour, however, and the risk of any such encounters was minimal. Besides, people in the city knew who he was. No one would dare question the way he looked.

Baldwin had been prepared for the meeting to go south. A former ally threatened to cause trouble for the de Clermonts' interests in America before fleeing to Europe. Philippe ordered his oldest living son to intercept the defector in Alsace-Lorraine and have a chat. If verbal persuasion didn't work, Baldwin was free to use his power of economic persuasion. The rendezvous city of Strasbourg was convenient enough; his and Eva's flat was located on its outskirts.

The trip hardly substituted for a romantic getaway, but they barely saw each other throughout the year and the opportunity was too good to miss. But Baldwin had a feeling his bleeding out on the bed would disrupt their weekend plans.

He began undoing his tie on the stairs leading to their floor, but the sudden movement made him acutely aware of how wet his shoulder was from the blood. He knew Eva would smell it from whichever room she was in. He entered the flat and heavily shut the front door behind him.

A few seconds later he was met with Eva's wide-open hazel eyes, sweeping him head to toe, looking for the source of the scent.

"If you could help me out a bit, I would truly appreciate it," he grunted, tugging off his jacket. Underneath, the left half of the shirt was soaked through with blood.

"Was it 'a calm and rational conversation' you ended up having?" Eva's eyes were flicking from red on his hands to the ruined jacket. She finally moved, carefully releasing his arms from the jacket's sleeves and examining the wound.

"I had to make sure the message really sank in." Baldwin dragged himself to the kitchen and planted on a nearby chair with a groan. "Do we have something to remove the bullet with?"

Eva flashed him a look which warned that a casual attitude with regards to him being shot would not be appreciated.

"Forceps," was the only thing she said in response.

"It's like we were waiting for someone to get shot," Baldwin chuckled.

"How joyous that this day has finally arrived." Eva's tone suggested nothing joyful was currently happening. "How did he even manage to shoot you in the back? And if you say 'from the back', I'll drive that bullet even further into your shoulder."

"Oh, I have no doubt that you will," he replied honestly, tearing at his shirt, making access to the affected area easier. Eva tore her eyes away from him and went to the drawers to get the aforementioned instrument, along with pieces of white cloth and a basin filled with water. She pulled an empty silver dish closer to her and looked Baldwin over once again.

"Are there any other entry wounds I should know about?" She scanned his face, lingering on the blood on his forehead.

"No, he only managed to fire once. He probably tried to make it a warning, but his aim was off. Instead of shooting above my shoulder he hit lower."

She raised a brow, silently inquiring of the source of blood on his face. He shook his head.

"That's not mine."

Eva handed him a napkin to mop it off.

"I take it Philippe's task is now complete?"

"Yes, that bastard won't be a problem anymore."

He did not elaborate, and Eva didn't ask.

She began working on his shoulder blade, forceps in hand as she tried to remove the bullet, but it was too deep and resisted her attempts. She swore and cleaned the fresh blood off the surface of the wound to get a clearer look before beginning anew.

"I'm not a blasted doctor," she grunted. "At this point, if I make it worse, it's on you."

"Deal. But I am also not a warmblood. I just need that bullet out of the way so that the shoulder can heal itself." Baldwin wiped blood off his face with a napkin Eva gave him.

She made few attempts to extract the bullet, switching the forceps from her left hand to her right to try a different angle, but each time she triggered a fresh rush of blood. She began muttering under her breath, and though it was almost too quiet for him to hear, he realized that profanities directed at her own failed attempts had shifted focus and were now being aimed at him instead. Each time the forceps slipped out of the wound her frustration made her switch the language she spoke in, and Baldwin found himself catching not only interesting facts about himself but also about her vocabulary.

"I didn't know you spoke Burgundian," he uttered through the gritted teeth while Eva took a pause to get a clean cloth.

"Nobody speaks Burgundian. I only know that one phrase."

She was clearly unfazed by his attempt to make small talk. Instead, she put one hand on his forearm for support, and he felt it violently shake. He silently covered her hand with his.

"Honey, it doesn't hurt, I promise."

"You think that all this time I was sparing you pain and that's why the bullet is still inside you?" she snorted, her worry still evident. He squeezed her hand in reassurance and looked forward.

His head jerked involuntarily as she dug deeper and finally grabbed the bullet. She wiggled it out of his shoulder and took a clean cloth to the wound to stop the flow of blood.

"Liar," she stated, not missing his small flinch.

He heard a clank as she dropped both the forceps and the bullet to the dish.

"Eva," he softly called. She didn't reply.

Wincing, he moved to look over his left shoulder. She was staring pointedly at the opposite wall, her lower lip quivering.

"I hate you," she muttered.

Baldwin released a shaky breath.

"For what?" he carefully asked her. She turned her gaze to him.

"For doing this to me."

Baldwin made an even greater effort to fully turn in his seat and face her.

"What _am_ I doing?" His voice carried no taunt or irritation. He knew there was no rational answer to that question and simply pushed her towards a truce. Even though there technically was no fight to begin with.

"You're making me hate you," she whispered, and he furrowed his brow. _Was this an answer he expected?_

"How am I—"

"I'm no expert, as I said, but had this bullet gone lower, the bleeding would be more severe and the consequences more dire," she spat out, hastily washing her hands, fingers still stained with his blood. "Maybe, just _maybe_ not enough to kill you but enough to slow you down for your opponent to finish the job." She threw the towel onto the table and took a step to walk away but Baldwin caught her by the wrist; not tight enough to crush it, just enough to demand that she stay where she was. "I'm not having this happen to me. If it's selfish, I'm sorry, but I won't let you leave me like that-"

He pulled her close with his good arm, and her half-hearted attempt to push him away only confirmed his suspicion that there was something troubling her on a deeper level. A moment later she relented and melted into his embrace, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Baldwin gently traced his hand up her back and wove his fingers in her hair. He closed his eyes, letting her familiar scent wash over him; the throbbing pain in his shoulder becoming a mere afterthought. He furrowed his brow, trying to decipher what was bothering her; picking up on the sound of her beating heart, the change in her breath, listening in so hard that he almost missed her whisper-

"I love you."

He wasn't sure he heard it right. He couldn't tell what language she said it in. Her voice was so quiet he could have sworn it was an illusion. On instinct, he pulled her even closer, and her floral scent became even more pungent. It was not the first time he sensed such change in his attunement to Eva, and it never failed to send his mind spiraling. It felt wrong, to lack her presence so desperately when she wasn't near him, and each time he tried to shove that uneasiness to the back of his mind.

He breathed a sigh of relief only to realize that he left her with no answer. He froze in his spot.

_Say it._

_You have known it for months now._

_Just tell her._

Yet he couldn't muster the words.

He half-expected her to pull away and walk out. He did not think she would demand an answer, but he was certain that when he looked into her eyes, he would see only hurt and—in all probability—regret.

She moved without breaking their embrace and met his gaze.

There was no hint of regret in the way she looked at him.

"Are you leaving for London tomorrow?"

He blinked to make sure this was real. Eva in his arms. With no impending trouble at the doorstep or a conflict inside. _She's not mad at you for staying silent. She just said it because she was ready to do so._

He smiled softly and followed the curve of her waist with his fingers.

"Actually, no. Matthew is overseeing the transition of power to the new king. They've passed the Accession act, and he will help with the coronation next year. I am very much at a loose end right now."

"Good." She traced his cheek with her fingers, her gaze wistful. "You're long overdue for a small break in your never-ending engagements."

"Not to worry." He placed a quick kiss on her shoulder. It _is_ a nice change of pace, he thought. He'll have enough time to tell her. "We've got all the time in the world."


End file.
